We finished breakfast and, after some last- minute packing, descended
to the reception desk, where Dad instructed the porter to have our suitcases
delivered to the station.

Beautiful day, said the manager as we paid the bill. He was a thin man with a finely shaped nose and one ear. The loss of an ear was not unusual,
as they could be torn off annoyingly easily, but what was unusual was
that hed not troubled to have it stitched back on, a relatively straightforward
procedure. More interesting, he wore his Blue Spot high up on his
lapel. It was an unofficial but broadly accepted signal that he knew how
to fix things, for a fee. Wed had crayfish for dinner the night before,
and he hadnt punched it out of ration books. It had cost us an extra half
merit, covertly wrapped in a napkin.

Every day is a beautiful day, replied my father in a cheery manner.

Indeed they are, the manager countered genially. After we had
exchanged feedback on the hotel for being clean and moderately comfortable,
and on us, for not bringing shame to the establishment by poor
table manners or talking loudly in public areas he asked, Do you
travel far this morning?

Were going to East Carmine.

The Blues manner changed abruptly. He gave us an odd look, handed
back our merit books and wished us a joyously uneventful future before
swiftly moving to attend someone else. So we tipped the porter, reiterated
the time of our train and headed off to the first item on our itinerary.

Hmm, said my father, staring at the Badly Drawn Map once we had
donated our ten cents and shuffled inside the shabby yet clean maphouse,

I cant make head nor tail of this.

The Badly Drawn Map might not have been very exciting, but it was
very well named. Thats probably why it survived the deFacting, I suggested,
for the map was not only mystifying but mind- numbingly rare.

Aside from the Parker Brothers celebrated geochromatic view of the Previous
World, it was the only pre- Epiphanic map known. But somehow
its rarity wasnt enough to make it interesting, and we stared blankly for
some minutes at the faded parchment, hoping to either misunderstand
it on a deeper level or at least get our moneys worth.

The longer and harder we look at it, the cheaper the entrance donation
becomes, Dad explained.

I thought of asking how long wed have to stare at it before they owed
us money, but didnt.

He put his guidebook away, and we walked back out into the warm
sunlight. We felt cheated out of our ten cents but politely left positive
feedback, since the drabness of the exhibit was no fault of the curators.

Dad?

Yes?

Why was the hotel manager so dismissive of East Carmine?

The Outer Fringes have a reputation for being unsociably dynamic,
he said after giving my question some thought, and some consider that
eventfulness may lead to progressive thought, with all the attendant
risks that might bring to the Stasis.

It was a diplomatically prescient remark, and one that I had cause to
consider a lot over the coming days.

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